The Ned Wood Archive

It’s a land unknown to man

where fantasy is fact

So if you can please understand

you might not come back

The Amboy Dukes

One day I found myself an old hut on the railway way above Chee Dale.  Must have been an old tool shed or something.  Of course, like the railway, it was completely unused. At least it was then. It’s a trail now. Back then the railway was abandoned and the tunnels were closed. And Chee Dale itself is hidden from the world round a bend in the river.  Since they took the railway out, no-one went there.  They’d pulled up the rails and the sleepers, but they’d kindly left the old shack just for me.  It wasn’t too big either – maybe about ten foot square.  But big enough for me.  At first I got into a habit of taking lunch there, sitting just in front of it, facing out across the narrow valley the other side of which was covered in trees, their lush green leaves gently dancing in the slight breeze.  The sun would be full up in the sky opposite me and would gently kiss my cheeks and closed eyelids as I turned my face in its warmth.

Nobody ever came by.  Well, hardly.  Why should they?  There was nowhere to go to, just a closed track on a disused railway.  Folk these days need to be going somewhere.  They need to get somewhere quick.  I always say, just enjoy the journey.  So that’s what I decided to do.  Just take a break and sit there, enjoying where I was.

Then, as the nights were so mild, I thought I’d get a bag and kip out.  I cleaned out the place, got myself a little burner from Buxton to boil up some supper, and settled down.  The sun went down behind me early in the evening, but I sat out in the peaceful shade relaxing in the quiet.  I crawled into my bag after it had been dark a while so I could get up early and not miss too much light.  The mornings were beautifully clear, but with the sun hiding from me behind Chee Tor for half of the morning, the air was that sharp coolness that refreshes you awake.  What a beautiful place.  The fresh green woods, the River Wye crashing along in the valley beneath me, the untroubled solitude, and then at last, the languid warmth of the August sun, finally rising over the noble head of the hill to my east.

I wanted to share this with everyone.  Not just Bernie and Chris and Helen and Son and Annie.  I want everyone to come up here and share this beautiful place.  Everyone should be able to sit out in the dales and enjoy the views.  Climb the peaks and wrestle with the wind blowing through you, trying to push you off. (You can fall off a mountain.)  Sit under the dappling trees enjoying the flickering sun.  Sit next to the Wye and listen to its joyful rhythms.  Sit out under the stars and gaze up at the infinity.  Recognize the old familiar patterns in the sky.  Watch the phases of the moon.  Spot the planets.  Wonder at the meteor displays. Lie back on the solid earth and ground yourself.  Lie awake in the early morning and listen to the birds chatting with each other. Feel the sun on your closed eyelids. Go up the hills and come back someone else. Like that old bloke said: you can’t climb the same hill twice because you’re not the same person.  You go up a hill and it takes you out of yourself, takes all of your component parts, sorts them, and puts them back in a more ordered, peaceful arrangement.

I never worked again after that.  How could I?  I’d found heaven.  I spent my days meditating in the calm still air outside my cabin or on the long green slopes the other side of the hill.  I could choose my spot depending on my mood.  A wide open expanse of grass rolling down to the stepping-stones across the river if I was in a generous worldly mood.  Or the more narrow confines of my new little house, its short sheep-shorn front lawn the width of a railway track, and its surrounding forest of guardian ash trees if I wanted to be reclusive and introspective.

Some days I’d even catch sight of folk.  Mainly down on the path along the dale, crossing by the stepping-stones.  But once or twice they’d lose their way and come by my home.

One time I saw the Memphis King walking by, dressed like he was when he did Mystery Train, his blue jeans turned up at the ankles, his T-shirt clean and white, his hair quiffed back and black.  Behind him came three mad Zen masters, one a Scottish dude with his kilt over his trousers, the second a straight short-haired geezer carrying a photo of the Sun King in the selfsame jeans and T-shirt, the third black-leathered and biker-haired and in a world of his own.  They didn’t stop for tea.

Then the King of Comedy came by, grouching on his cigar, his crouched walk flapping the tails of his still not fitting black tux.  ‘Well hello’ he said raising his thick painted eyebrows in step with his thick painted moustache.  But he didn’t stop.  And neither did the straggle of students behind him. 

Then the Elfin King passed, dancing a jig and blowing his pipe, the sky shining through his long curly locks, the stars on his brow glistening in the sun.  And, just like in that Swedish film, behind him, the knight, his squire, and friends, their hands held as one, silently danced towards the dawn, not one of them stopping for a chat.

And I swear I saw Annie come by once.  She smiled as she passed.

I looked into the future and saw the glory that was waiting for all of the Trickies in all of the seasons to come.  I listened to the future and heard all of the wonderful sounds to come from the new wave explosion.  I looked into the future and saw my life with Annie and saw how it would end, sad and lonely in her kitchen.  But I saw all the fun we would have before it did end and I knew it was worth it.  Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl. Boy finds enlightenment. I saw Annie’s giggling eyes and heard her gentle screams of laughter.  I felt the warmth of her company and the strength of her personality.  I looked ahead and saw where the world was heading.  I knew then that I could decide to stay on my hill forever.  I could live in my little square hut and stay in heaven.

I thought of all the folk I knew searching for the way.  I though of Oxford Rich running up and down from A to Z and back again.  I thought of Bill the philosopher and wondered whether he’d know when he got to where he was going.  I thought of Chris and Helen and their simple life.  I thought of Bernie trying so hard to follow the way.  And I realised there was no such thing as a Dharma Punk.  There’s no such thing as a Dharma Red.  There is no Zen, no Buddha, no Dharma.  There’s no such thing as the way.  There is no answer. There is no enlightenment. And knowing that there is no enlightenment is all the real goddamn enlightenment you need.  There are all the answers in the world.  A myriad of different ones.  You have your own way, just find it.

We are on an endless journey, that’s the point. That’s where the fun is. Don’t waste your life worrying about whether you’ll get there or worrying about where “there” is. Just sit back and enjoy the journey, the good, the bad, and the indifferent. Like Kerouac says, we’re empty pages. Vast glowing empty pages and we can do anything we wanna do. Maybe that’s what Richard Hell really meant. We’re the blank generation. We can decide where we are going, what we are doing, what we want out of life.

I’m staying here, up on the side of this valley.  I’ve decided.  I’m never coming down.  I stood up and shouted across the valley ‘I’m staying here.  I’m never coming down’.  And as my voice echoed across the dale I leapt into the air and ran faster than I knew how down the scree and back to the world.